


With many teeth, he smiles

by courgette96



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Loki (Marvel), Angst, Dark, Dubious Consent, He is also an ancient being powered by the birth of the universe, Loki is not nice, Murder, Non-Chronological, POV Multiple, The grandmaster is catnip to magic users
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 12:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courgette96/pseuds/courgette96
Summary: Not all monsters bear fangs and claws. Some live in tower and laugh in glee at newfound games, and others live in the heart, birthed by loss and pain.Not all monsters live at the end of the Universe, but all are lead there eventually.





	With many teeth, he smiles

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I just wanted to write something about amnesiac Loki, something short, dubious Frostmaster, that kind of stuff.  
> And then my brain was like "we're too good for plot. And we'll make it 6k".  
> So here we are, three days later, and here it is. What is "it"? Who can say.
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine. Which means I'll probably go back to spell check in the very immediate future.I just wanted to post something before my new internship tomorrow. :)

Sakaar is a planet of discarded things. Broken things, from the fall that made them land here or long before they made it past the wormholes that carried them through.

There are some who live in the tower, many more in the small shacks bellow. Some live their lives in extravagant, deadly parties, others scramble for trash to sell at the highest bidder, others still just scramble day to day, at the bottom of the tower, enduring life one distraction at the time. They all are the same, in that they are all powerless: weak creatures of all shapes and sizes, inconsequential and ephemeral compared to the one that rules them.

Sakaar is equalitarian that way.

That is perhaps, in part, why the Arena proved so successful. There is no small amount of reassurance in seeing beings even lower than them fighting for their survival, and no small amount of delight in watching warriors, beasts, or newfound green monsters display their strength for their pleasure only.

The crowd so loves its monsters. They make for the most entertaining fights.

There is also a monster in the tower. He watches either in delight or in boredom – though the later never lasts for long, because there is always entertainment to be found, especially when the price of boredom is so very high.

There is a monster who watches the games, and there is a smaller monster at his feet.

 

~*~

 

By now, most partygoers know to ignore the agonizing screams that sometimes overshadow the music they dance to. Those who don’t are quick to read the room and keep the party going. Downers are never welcome, but it would be especially rude today when the music is all the Grandmaster’s personal creation, and it is the least they can do to honor their guest.

Besides, the scream is only for the sake of one individual, who looks on with delighted, hungry eyes as the performances nears its end. The star of the show steps back, and the prop falls to the ground, all sightless eyes and limbs frozen stiff; one of them shatters as the corpse hits the ground.

It’s a shame, in a way: the offender was a Kree, and frostbites just don’t _pop_ on their skin the way they do on, say, a Zehoberei. But that’s okay, because the sound effects and the steam that rises when sub-zero temperature flesh meets ambient air is more than enough showmanship to compensate.

“Oh, that’s just so _good!_ ” the Grandmaster coos, nudging the frozen husk with the tip of his foot. He claps his hands. “I love it. It never gets old – isn’t that right Topaz?”

Topaz clutches the melting stick, disappointed but not unsurprised. The Grandmaster does love melting, but he loves variety even more. And freezing is brand new, just in, not even a decade old yet, so it holds that kind of appeal.

Melting is an oldie but a goodie; there will still be time for it later.

“Yes, it’s just - _so good_ , just like you, darling!” The Grandmaster adds, extending his hand to beckon his current obsession closer. “You just never disappoint. It’s, uh, it’s one of your best qualities, really.”

When his prize is in his arms he pulls it closer still, casually trailing a hand up its throat, over its lips, tracing the golden lines painted there for his pleasure. Blue lips part open, because it is what the Grandmaster likes, and the Grandmaster wastes no time in brushing the pad of his fingers against a very flexible tongue.

“This is still my favorite though,” he adds conversationally, but he articulates each word he speaks with serpentine delight as that very clever mouth begins to suck. As a reward, he lets a hint of his power flow through his fingers – just a little, enough to tease. “It’s just so _talented._ Maybe you can show me how much again, later, mmh? What do you say?”

Loki closes his eyes, hums around the fingers, and lets his head fall back in bliss as he tastes the Universe on his tongue.

 

~*~

Here is what happens, when all the monsters were destroyed and a monster in the making learns that it wasn’t enough:

The sound of a bridge shattering followed Loki as he falls, an echo that taunts and tears and mimicks what is happening in his own mind.

Loki falls, and shatters slowly. The cracks that are already there deepened and spread, a slow tear like fingers carefully tearing him apart just so.

The Void is cruel that way. So vast it was it could have crushed Loki in an instant, but instead it took its time. Piece by piece, ripping away memory after memory, with neither order or method – neither are needed, when the result was nothing but a flayed wretch of a being, all raw nerves with a rawer spirit still.

And the Void takes and takes and takes, a hungry black maw ready to swallow him whole and chew him all the same. The black nothingness around him pulls and stretches and tears him apart even as the black hole in his chest gnaws at his soul

Monster, his mind whispers, over and over again. It whispers until it shattered under the weight of nothingness, at which point it begins to scream for there is no defense left to keep the maelstrom at bay.

_Monster Monster monster monsterMOnsTeR!_

It is a truth that is inescapable, written in the drops of blood that float around him ever since he has clawed at his face. It is etched in the lines of his skin that come and go with anguish and numbing despair. Terrible sights that lose their meaning but not their terror.

And still the dying stars around him scream: _Monster_!

Loki screams, but it was useless in a Void. No sound could keep the accusations at bay.

And when he is ground to dust so thoroughly, until nothing remains but an echo of his name and the curse of the universe ringing in his bones, the Void spits him out.

He lands in a pile of debris, all sharp corners and pointy protrusions. The pain barely registers at all, and when he looks up he finds a group of starving creatures before him. Men and women dressed and armed with the same rubbish that surrounds them, beggars pretending to be warriors as they stare at him with hungry gazes.

Loki stares back. They are fully armored, but defenseless. Not predators, not dangerous.

Loki feels far more dangerous. All broken edges and deep black pits, he is made of sharp points and desperate hunger, despair turned to terror turned to barely restrained aggression.

“Are you fighter or food?” they ask.

Loki, beast of nothing but his name, smiles and hisses “ _Monster_.”

 

~*~

 

Loki waits, docile and still, as maids and designers fix his clothing so that the light, yellow fabric falls of his shoulders just so, as his eyes a lined with blue paint and his hair is brushed back – never tied, though, because that just makes it harder to grab.

His skin is pale today, as it is most days. It used to be his preference, but now Loki simply appears in whatever manner the Grandmaster wishes him to that day. The attention and praise he receives when he complies has proven to be an effective cure for the echoes of fear and repulsion that had initially accompanied his blue skin.

As he watches himself in the mirror, he distantly pines for green and black. But the Grandmaster dislikes those colors on him, and wants him in gold and blue and just a hint of red always. And the Grandmaster gets what the Grandmaster wants.

The pampering is a sign that the Grandmaster wishes for a pet today, or at least for the beginning of the evening. The loose clothing, the glass of alcohol that Loki is being encouraged to drink so early in the afternoon, the rumors of Research and Development’s new little party favor that the Grandmaster is so eager to try out, they all point at the fact that the Grandmaster will be more in want of a toy than anything else.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. Because the Grandmaster gets what the Grandmaster wants, and Loki is happy to oblige. Because the Grandmaster has found him, taken him in and made him _just so._ He has given Loki something akin to a place in the world, has made many demands which Loki has learned to translate into just as many purposes.

And purpose is enough to put any lost, broken thing back together.

 

~*~

 

Scrapper 142 has a seat just for her in the most renowned, seediest bar in Sakaar. Such a tittle was fiercely competed for, but this particular joint hosted at least one murder a week and never seemed to run out of that specific liquor with such a high percentage of alcohol that it was set aflame from the mere friction of removing the cap.

Scrapper 142 gets three of those tonight. She blows out the fame before bringing it to her lips, a conscious decision, tilts her head back and swallows.

She downs it all in one go, which some might call a waste given what she paid for it. But whatever, she needs it down her throat now, because alcohol has been the only thing keeping her together for a couple millennia now.

Well, alright. Most likely it isn’t, but at least that way she doesn’t notice her already shattered self crumbling apart even further.

Well, alright. She noticed. But it helps her not to care.

One would think it would be easier not to care after all those years. It should have been easy from the moment she had been pushed back, when _she…_

And Scrapper 142 opens another bottle, because even now, she couldn’t think _her_ name without pain and guilt stabbing her heart until liquor burns it away.

When _she_ threw herself in front of her, taking Hela’s sword through her chest, and the woman that wasn’t yet Scrapper 142 fell and fell, her life destroyed by a grinning madwoman….

It should be easy not to care. But even after all these years, she still needs to stay drunk to manage.

It doesn’t help that now, whenever she goes to make her sales, she is faced with arguably her best find and worst decision. She had recognized the tattered armor, Asgardian made with the marks of royalty. She had recognized the look of despair and loss that still painted her find’s face even after the obedience disk had forced him into unconsciousness.

She had recognized it all, and once again decided not to care. And now each frozen body, each sight of blue skin and ridges that she also recognized, each sight of this remnant of Asgard that she had willfully sold to a demon, it all serves as a permanent reminder of all the she wishes to forget. When she closes her eyes, she sees a horde of fallen Valkyrie, all of them condemning her for her monstrous indifference. 

She wishes that boy had never fallen through that wormhole. She wishes she hadn’t been the one to find him.

She downs her third bottle.

The again, the credits she got from that sell are still paying for her liquor five years later, so perhaps it was worth it after all.

Asgard can burn for all she cares.

 

~*~

 

In the end, it had been no great beast or warrior that took the All-Father’s life. The great warrior died at the hands of another monster, far more terrible, far more powerful. A horror made of grief and loss and too little time, born when his youngest was swallowed by the Void and by the despair that had been growing for years in his heart, strengthened when his wife died in defense of all she held dear, when she had protected Jane Foster from the Kurse for no other reason than because her son loved her.

Thor had remained. Thor hadn’t been enough for his father to keep on living.

The Goddess of Death walks through the portal, freed from her cage. She is a different kind of monster, far more tangible, one that bleeds, and for a moment, Thor is filled with a wild, desperate hope that this is a monster that he _can_ defeat.

Then he is flung from the Bifrost, and Thor remembers that monsters of flesh and bone can bring just as much destruction, especially when armed with centuries of lies and bloodlust.

 

~*~

 

Really, the Grandmaster thinks as the Hulk throws a challenger against the wall, his newest champion is a stellar find. Another gift from Scrapper 142, and she herself is a gift that keeps on giving. Ha, get it?

Isn’t it good?

The Grandmaster leans even further back into his seat, running his hands through his pet’s hair.

Yes, it is all _so very good._

It’s always good, because Sakaar is just the way he wants it, but things have been particularly fun lately. He hasn’t had this good a champion in years, and he certainly hasn’t had such a long-lasting companion in ages. Except Topaz, but that’s different. He doesn’t want to have sex with Topaz, that would just be _weird._

He likes _weird,_ but not like _that._

But yeah, anyway. His pet, Loki, Lolo, such an unexpected turn of events! Who would have thought that the little bugger would last this long, that he would have become such a permanent little delight to pepper the Grandmaster’s day? Who would have thought he could turn _blue_?

It’s great that the Grandmaster can still get surprised at his age. Just great.

He doesn’t grow bored, _really._ He just enjoys people to their fullest, and then he moves on. That’s an important skill to have to, with his lifespan. Moving on, no use crying for spilled milk and all that, and really, if he sometimes hastens said spillage through the use of a melting stick, well… They all die so quickly anyway. A few decades don’t change anything.

Before he was all about quantity, but now he is older, wiser, and he knows it’s all about finding that one _distraction_ that can adapt to one’s different moods. And so if the creator in him loves shaping an obviously distraught little thing, if his own bleeding heart just _can’t resist_ lavishing with attention someone so eager for a little affection… If he has happened to have found something that is exciting, like that one time it freaked out at the sight of a war-hammer and started stabbing the poor contender with ice picks and daggers, which had been quite a show but had ruined the game, and then that poor, broken pet had been so apologetic, so desperate to be forgiven…

Well, that’s just great. Great fun, all around. He is all about fun.

This long couch is a really nifty idea: it allows for those pale, criminally long, very fun to mark legs to fully stretch out. Whose idea was it? He hopes they’re not dead, they deserve some appreciation.

Then again, they were just doing their jobs. Never mind!

His champion tramples the latest chump who was set against him. The crowd roars in approval, and the Grandmaster claps. Really, such a great thing to have, this champion. Everyone loves him here, and the Grandmaster is pretty sure that his popularity polls are through the roof thanks to this guy.

Not that he has any, but that isn’t the point now, is it?

The point, as it always is, is that the Grandmaster doesn’t like to be bored. And doesn’t like not getting his way. And the good news is that Loki is usually pretty on board with making sure neither of these things happen.

So lovely, this little broken thing. His vicious, eager, desperate pet monster.

 

~*~

 

A couple weeks after Loki has landed in Sakaar, the Grandmaster gets bored.

He doesn’t say as much, but such things are easily sensed. It shows in the way his eyes dart around the room rather than gaze intensely upon Loki. It shows in the way the Grandmaster smiles, impatience coming to taint the usual indulgence.

The Grandmaster’s attention is straying, and with it, his favors, and with it…

Well, Loki has nothing else. Without it, all he has are the clothes on his back, given to him; his own mind, which is a worthless thing that still threatens to eat itself on most days. The only thing keeping it a bay is the Grandmaster, who gives him something to focus on. Who has had grounded him when Loki had felt as if he were to be swallowed by the Void once again. All it had taken was a touch, and then the chaos in Loki’s mind had been swept away in favor of the sheer presence of the man, the being, this ancient thing that spun in time with the universe, and Loki had wept, had begged…

He wants that again. He will shatter without it.

So that night, at the latest of the Grandmaster’s lavish parties, he takes special care in making himself alluring. He bares his arms and his legs as much as he is able to without feeling foolish, tries to channel the same fragile being that had first caught the Grandmaster’s attention, combining it with a hint of seduction that he knows his host is receptive to.

The Grandmaster rebuffs him.

“No, Loki,” he says distractedly, waiving him away without even looking. “Not now.”

And then he begins to walk away, leaving Loki behind. Loki who watches, frozen in place by the words. His surrounding blur around him as his pulse quickens, as his limbs shake, and bone deep _panic_ rises within him.

A partygoer sneaks up behind him, obviously drunk, obviously feeling amorous enough to try her hand at the Grandmaster’s newest reject before he meets his inevitable end. She reaches to grab his arm, the first step towards coaxing him into her games.

Loki doesn’t really see any of it happen. All he hears is _no, Loki,_ over and over and over again, all he sees is black, blue, snow, and a hand reaching out for him and no, no, he _cannot let it touch him!_

He turns around, grabs the offending limb.

She screams.

The sound takes an eternity to reach Loki. When it does, it takes even longer for him to react.

He lets go, and the screaming women falls to the floor, clutching her arm close to her chest. Her once bright pink skin has been charred black, white frost clinging to what little flesh remains.

Loki looks at his hand with wide eyes.

His skin is blue, blue, blue, and he hates it, he hates it, but he _doesn’t understand_ , and oh, what will the Grandmaster think now?

Loki turns around, eyes wide, ready to fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness.

Sakaar looks different through these eyes. The colors are all so bright they physically hurt to look upon.

But then they find the Grandmaster, and as he looks upon him all pain is washed away but the overwhelming relief that floods through him.

The Grandmaster looks back with a hungry grin, tongue peaking between his teeth as if to taste the frost in the air.

Loki breathes, smiles, and sees opportunity. With it comes the realization that he has been far too passive in this game. The Grandmaster’s whims are ever so mercurial, but if Loki’s changing skin is any indication, Loki is skilled enough to adapt and keep up with them.

From there on, the Grandmaster never grows bored again.

 

~*~

 

Thor lands through a portal in space, hits the ground and stays there. His vision is blurred as he looks upon the sky, dull and grey and torn apart.

The portal makes him think of another, back in Midgard, where aliens poured through instead of trash. Back then, his grief had still been fresh, barely two years after Loki fell. He had to put it all aside for the sake of battle, for the defense of the Realms, and had done his best to do so.

Yet with each swing of his hammer, with each call of Thunder, as he advanced and made enemies retreat, he found wishing for familiar support. His new shield brothers were skilled, but how helpful it would be to have a seidr wielder at his side. How he wished for someone capable of sneaking unnoticed, of cloaking himself from sight and mislead the enemy!

How he wished for Loki.

He thought of him often, back then.

(That’s not quite true. He thinks of Loki all the time, still. He is very skilled at finding excuses to do so.)

(When he is attacked by a group of scavengers then shocked into unconsciousness by the woman who rescues him, Thor thinks that there are many advantages invisibility indeed.)

 

~*~

 

“There is a revolution in the making,” Loki murmurs in the Grandmaster’s ear, in the privacy of the Grandmaster’s suite. It has become a familiar setting to him, much to Loki’s pride and delight.

The Grandmaster hums in response, but Loki knows him well enough to know he is intrigued.

So he spills every secret he knows, everything he has heard through the copies of himself that he has sent roaming the streets. The revolution is spoken of the in depths of the arena, as fighters wait until the next games begin. A man made of stone is behind it. He is a simple-minded idealist, but such beings are wont to gain traction, and why tolerate such talk from someone who is hardly irreplaceable?

He knows all of those who listen. His duplicates allow him to walk about, unseen and everywhere.

A year ago, he would never have dreamed achieving such a thing. But it must be the Grandmaster’s presence that enable him, the very magic of his being infusing into Loki and allowing him to send his illusions far beyond his usual boundaries.

“Oh, well, that’s not _fair!_ ” the Grandmaster tuts finally with a pout. “I took all of them in. I gave them _jobs!_ Do you know how hard those are to find, in this economy? I do, I make the economy.” He taps his fingers with his lips. “It, uh, it is just so _sad_ to see such ungratefulness in the world.”

He turns towards Loki then, slow, languorous movements as he lets his eyes rake over Loki’s naked body. “Not you, though,” he adds with a pat to Loki’s cheek. “You I know you appreciate me. Don’t you?”

Loki knows better than to respond. He has played his part, and the Grandmaster is ever so pleased.

“Why don’t you show me?” The Grandmaster say, spreading his legs as he speaks. “And I, uh, I’ll show you how much I appreciate _you._ ”

Loki sinks to his knees, so very pleased with himself, though part of him remarks that it is a shame thing had to be this way.

In truth, he heard what the man of stone had to say. He made some very good points.

But the Grandmaster rules right now, and Loki so loves to feel appreciated.

 

~*~

 

The next day, the Arena’s opening act has changed, and ten brand new fighters are made to raise the audience’s spirits before the main event.

It is better that way, the crowd agrees. That stone giant was growing so very dull.

 

~*~

 

When Thor hangs from the bridge, he is blind to the shards of Bifrost around him. He is blind to the whole in the Universe, to the great gaping darkness that threatens to swallow him whole.

Because Loki is hanging beneath him, his grip around Gugnir all that Thor can see. Even though that hand wielded the spear against him, even though it so readily cast spells to harm him, all Thor can see when he looks at it is that same hand, much smaller, belonging to another boy, much younger. That boy who would steal Thor’s tunics and wear them despite needing to constantly push up the sleeves, who turned into snakes and stabbed Thor in a fit of jealousy when Thor began seeking other friends, whom Thor had forgiven readily because he adored him so.

Thor’s little brother, beloved and treasure, whom he has sworn to protect.

But oh, was that not the same little brother who sent Asgard greatest weapon against him? Was that not the same who had unleashed death and destruction so readily and so eagerly?

It has been but days since Thor last saw him. What happened in the meantime, for Loki to look so shattered, for him to spit madness and rage and despair so readily, stripped of all the pretense and illusion that he so ardently clung to?

What happened, and why was Thor not there to stop it?

There is so much Thor doesn’t understand, so much he wants to do even though he doesn’t know _how._

But he is Thor, he is mighty, and this is his _brother_. If there is any fight that must be won, this is it. Even if the enemy wears his brother’s face.

 _Please,_ he wants to cry out. _Please, brother, let me help you!_

His lips do not move, but surely his brother, dearest above all, surely he will be able to read the words in Thor’s desperate eyes?

But Loki doesn’t see, or he doesn’t understand.

He lets go.

 

~*~

 

Everything hurts.

Loki limbs are sore useless things, unable to carry out the urge to flee that has seized him as soon as he has awoken to hear a man and a woman speaking above him. So soon after he had laid waste to the scavengers that had greeted him after his fall, he was brought down by a sharp sting on his neck, and electricity wracking his body. Thunder and lightning making him fall on his knees, and he had been too breathless to scream. It had been as if an impossible weight was crushing his chest, taunting him with helplessness until he escaped into unconsciousness.

 _Appropriate_ , Loki thinks, though he doesn’t know why.

It is hardly surprising. His mind is still in shambles, a useless collection of knowledge without context and emotions without tether, thought that come unbidden and escape just as quickly, leaving Loki a decrepit ship being hectored by a storm. It is ruins, haunted by the phantom pain that puts his still twitching limbs to shame and the bone-deep certainty that he has nothing left in the Universe.

It _hurts,_ and it is a pain he cannot even run from.

“Your poor thing,” the man above coos. From his place on the floor, Loki can only see the hem of his dress. “Let me help you.”

 _Yes,_ Loki thinks dazedly, _Yes, please._

What other option does he have?

 

~*~

 

One evening, out of the corner of his eye, Loki sees a blue shadow.

His first thought is that it is the result of one of the many concoctions the Grandmaster likes to see him indulge in. But he hasn’t drunk any such liquor in hours, and besides, of the many side effects these drinks might have, hallucinations have never been among them.

A dream, he thinks then. Madness, a shade conjured by one of the remaining cracks in his psyche.

(It was only a year ago that he laid to waste a contender for no other reason than for the panic the sight of a hammer inspired in him. He knows better than to trust that he is fully sane.)

But when he turns to face it, to chase away that which can only ever haunt the corner of one’s vision, he still sees it. _Her_. Blue light in the shape of a woman, a long dress with an armored breastplate, long hair that curls around her forehead, and desperate longing marring her features even as her lips are parted in shocked hope.

He doesn’t know her.

He _aches_ for her.

He reaches out. She reaches back, and when their fingers nearly brush Loki wishes to cry.

His lips part open.

Then the Grandmaster steps into the room, and Reality twists itself to accommodate his presence.

The ghost is gone. He hopes to see her again.

He never does.

 

~*~

 

Frigga can often be seen at her scrying pool, late into the night, and early in the morning. When her duties allow it, and long after her husband stopped helping her in her task, unable to bear the continuous failure.

She searches for her son.

The court shakes its head at a grieving mother and prays the Queen will soon be able to put her deluded hopes to rest and move on. They turn to the All-Father to reason with her, and hope the surviving, worthy son will not be brought down by such continuous mourning.

Frigga ignores them, ignores the perfidious whispers of doubts, and keep to her task.

She searches for her son. She almost finds him.

She believes she has caught a glimpse of him, once. In strange clothes, in a strange place, with a stranger’s look on his face even as his eyes had filled with tears. But it was _her son_ , and he _lived_ , and she loved him so dearly.

That glimpse wass gone too soon, as a power far greater and far more ancient than hears severs the too fragile link.

It is as if the Universe itself wishes to keep her at bay.

“We will find him,” she swears to herself still, long after everyone else has given up hope. “We will bring him home.”

 

~*~

 

 

The Grandmaster is made of the Universe, the child of the Void between stars and the explosion that gave birth to them. He is the darkness that almost swallowed Loki whole, made flesh and bones and so much more. It can be felt in the air around him – or at least, Loki can. Especially when he first landed, when all that he was were raw nerves and an oversensitive soul, he could see the fabric of reality twist and knot itself for the sole purpose of accommodating the ancient being that stood before him. It is a terrifying sight, then and now.

He is made of the invisible Force that flows through time, of the music that binds reality, arcane and physical. In his flesh there must be the same kind of glow that Loki feels with him, the dim light that flares into a supernova whenever he is in the Grandmaster presence. It is like a resonance between them, and at the Grandmaster’s side side Loki feels the illusions he barely remembers how to make grow strong and numerous, feels all the weapons and armor tucked in negative space within arm’s reach, feels some primal Winter, buried within him, grow and sing like a snowstorm just waiting to be unleashed. It is a delicious feeling, always.

It is a precarious balance, but all it takes is a gentle touch, a soft whisper and the promise of affection and safety for the scales to tip, and for Loki to fall to his knees and never wish to leave.

 

~*~

 

As is relatively common, the music is overshadowed by an ear-shattering shriek as another party-goer falls victim to the melting stick.

Unlike other instances, everyone stops their celebration to look at the remains of the unfortunate upstart in stunned silence.

He had been quite stunning to look at, some had remarked when he had first arrived. He has – had – blue skin and red hair, gold lipstick and a coy smile. He had worlds of ambition in him, and enough charm in him that he had managed to quickly make his way to the center of the party. He had also been in the middle of a very long conversation with the Grandmaster when he was summarily reduced to a puddle.

Not an uncommon outcome, by any means. Sometimes certain individuals grow so criminally tedious that the Grandmaster must put an end to things as promptly as possible.

But see, the issue here is that neither him nor Topaz were the ones wielding the melting stick.

The crowd stares in shock and terror, awaiting the fallout with bated breath.

And the Grandmaster laughs and laughs, because his resident freezer has just used the melting stick, and that fact alone is far funnier and far more entertaining than what’s-his-name had been.

Ah, Loki’s sense of humor is just so delightful, is it not?

 

~*~

 

“I miss my brother,” Thor says one evening, quiet as he looks upon the palace’s garden – barely visible at this time of the night,

Sif looks at him, silent and solemn. She moves to close the doors behind them, shutting out the feast that takes place in these halls. They are celebrating the Prince’s return, his triumph over Midgard’s invaders.  Two years ago, Thor would have been sitting near the head of the table, and beside him would have sat silver tongue and brilliant wit, able to make Thor laugh with sharp observations and sly jokes shared just between the two of them.

It has been some time since Thor has been able to whole-heartedly celebrate anything.

“I miss my brother,” he repeats, voice softer still. “I wish I could bring him back.”

 

~*~

 

Loki wishes there will be an execution today. Ideally a public one, so that there might be a performance.

He hopes he’ll be able to participate. That way he’ll be certain the Grandmaster’s attention is on him.

The traitorous cousin has been captured and is now shackled to a chair awaiting his fate. Loki so hopes the Grandmaster will be in a freezing mood. It is impossible to take the initiative in such things, but when the Grandmaster wants it, and Loki delivers, oh, but the reward is sweet!

And when Loki accepts the reward reverently, when he behaves just as he is meant to and still remains just surprising enough to entertain, then he secures his position for many more months. Then he gets to feel the Universe caressing his skin as the Grandmaster lets out a glimpse of his true nature. Then he gets to taste power on his tongue along the sweetness and the sweat.

Should the Grandmaster prefer melting today… Loki will think of something else. Though he doubts melting a courtesan would be welcome so soon after the first time.

In the back of his mind, thunder rolls and demands that he ceases. Out of the corner of his eye, an echo of a blue ghosts pleads for him to turn back.

But Loki chases them away, because none of them have been to Sakaar before. Otherwise they would know, would understand. Perhaps they would even praise him for being so clever, for lasting so long when so many thought him a fleeting fancy. Because he understood the game long ago, and he played it so beautifully. Because he knew exactly what he needed to be, and what he is, and why he is favored above all others.

Loki is a monster.

It has served him well.

On the other side of the room, there is a man tied to a chair, who raises his arms and screams his rage. Thunder crackles on his fingertips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to talk about dubious Frostmaster, come find me on [tumblr](https://courgette96.tumblr.com/)


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